Taunt A God
by Penelope Grace
Summary: "Immortality you want, immortality you shall have. With a price." Tomione/Beauty and the Beast AU.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Fuck my life.

 _I._

 _Once upon a time_. . .

I suppose it's not everyday that a young man, specifically a young prince from the world above, would dare to taunt a god. Especially not my husband, who is older and wiser than me, yours truly, but could still be prone to his rageful episodes. Then again, my husband has a remarkable control over himself, but when he snaps, mountains rumble and shake to answer his call. Lesser gods run away from his wrath.

I was in the garden of the dead when I heard a terrible roar of pure anger echoing from the obsidian palaces that is my home. I paused before picking up a hoe and shoving it deep within the pockets of my dress. Dirt didn't dare to mar a single brown streak on my lovely black dress with encrusted tiny diamonds. A grand gift from my husband. A beautiful one.

I rushed to the throne room, entering from the side and lurking behind the two thrones. One mine. One his.

My husband held his fist tightly, anger etched on his handsome face. He viewed a levitating orb, looking into the world above. In it was a handsome boy, his long fingers wrapped around a wand. Beautiful. My lovely sister-in-law would want to take him for her own. Another boy in her harem of men, yet to fully blossom into his true beauty and charm. He gazed coldly down the deceased body of a young girl with spectacles. A foolish girl blessed with wisdom.

"Wizard," he sneered, his lips curling with disgust. "He tries to cheat me. He will die."

I lifted my gaze to the boy. And looked. And understood. Knew every bit of his broken soul, knew his greed, knew the darkness in his heart. It had been decades since I'd judged a soul still living, not yet dead.

"My love. . ." I whispered. "Perhaps, it would be better if I handle this. This matter. Personally."

He raised his head. Turned towards me.

"You wish to give him a second chance?" he asked incredulously.

"The sun will always shines," I told him. "He's young, only nineteen winters, my love. A Horcrux is a life worse than death. He won't understand the consequences until he's much older. I say we give him what he wants."

"Immortality?" My love snorted. "No one can run from me forever. And no one will ever be like us."

"Immorality. . ." I paused, turning away with deliberation. "With a price. A painful, painful price." I stared at the orb once again, looking intently on the red rose clutched in the blessed girl's hands. "He will learn. Mark my words, my love. Of the sorrow of immorality. To life as a monster. Never able to see another day in the sun unless. . ."

My husband, clearly calmed down from his rage, listened with rapture at the sound of my voice. He gestured for me to continue.

I glided towards him, a finger at his lip. "My love. . . Just watch and see." I winked at him. I curtseyed to him in respect, my very appearance changing and morphing as I wished. "Watch, my Lord Hades."

 _II._

My half-siblings and dear cousins has played this ploy and game for millennia. I myself have used it once. Dress up as a poor, shabby human. . . Or perhaps as an animal. My father, Zeus, is rather fond of animals. But the form I've chosen is of the dead girl's grandmother. Her grandmother has been missing for the last two years, but no one has thought her dead. She was a peculiar witch, loved to wander through the forest of monstrous creatures. She was known to disappear for days, months, and years at a time. In fact, she was pregnant with Myrtle's mother and left for the forest. Came back a year and a half later with a crying child in her arms.

This time, _I_ come in her form. With a curse on my tongue.

For all of his darkness and evilness, the prince does know how to throw a party for esteemed guests. Lucius of the House of Malfoy, for example. . . The Archduke. Well, for all of his titles, gold, and prestige, he would not survive my curse.

Humans, wizards or not, are alike. They bow to the whims of a goddess.

The dark oak doors open without my touch as I enter late into the ballroom. The music slows to a stop. I must be quite a sight in Myrtle's grandmother's form. A crooked back, hooked nose, and a tattered, black coat covered in dark. Nothing of the perfectly crafted dancers in flowy white dresses or the dashing men.

Only one isn't dressed in either white or black. Instead, he's dressed in deep green. Green waistcoat. Handcrafted with care. Expensive taste. His dark hair gleams in the magically lit room. I carefully pick my way towards the prince, every step I take limped.

I point a gnarled finger at the boy. "You," I accuse, anger laced in my voice. Her voice is deep, much deeper than mine. "Where is Myrtle?"

The boy's face forms a perfect mask of innocence. How incredible it is to know that this boy is capable of murder at such a young age. I almost regret not letting my love take him for dead. But no. . . I see something in this boy. I don't know what. Perhaps after all of this has been said and done, I'll know why I gave him a second chance to live.

"Madam, I believe you have the wrong place."

"No." I bellow at him. My arm falls to my side. I'm only six feet away from him. All eyes are upon on, enraptured by the sight. An old hag accusing a beloved, beautiful prince. "Murderer! I know who you are, Prince Marvolo Gaunt."

The boy raises an eyebrow and begins to laugh. "Murderer?" He turns to his sycophants, his followers, his subjects. "Surely this crone belongs to an asylum! The very things that spew out of her mouth, the very groundless accusations she throws at me, this Myrtle she speaks of. . ."

"Do you deny the making of a Horcrux?" I cut, interrupting his foolish lies. "Using my poor granddaughter's death, your first murder, to make a device of such horrible, evil magic!" I'm vaguely aware of the booming sound of thunder that shakes through the very stones of this castle. I forget, sometimes, that I'm Zeus' daughter as well as Demeter's.

At the very word _Horcrux_ , whispers begin. Dark, dark magic. Very few would dare to try it. And even fewer could succeed.

"A Horcrux? I would never dare," he lies.

A dark, black book flies to the marble floor. It flips open, the pages revealing words and thoughts. Then it begins to bleed. . . ink. Just like how blood would flow dangerously from an artery.

"No," he shouts. "Stop!"

Falling to his knees, he screams in pure agony. Pieces of his soul forcibly reunited. I did this to Herpo the Foul as well. He died from the pain, wanting it to end. My love thought it was a death too good for him.

My form shifts, morphing into something else. Something awfully different than Myrtle's grandmother. Not my true form, no. He will die instantly if he witnesses that. My dark hair blossoms behind me as my back straightens.

With sharp black nails, I lift his chin so he looks directly at me. I must be quite a sight. Far different from the old crone I played. A youthful, young woman of the greatest humanly beauty possible. Not a single sign of something divine.

His eyes are bloodshot, and his breaths come raggedly. What a sore sight for a prince.

"Immortality you want, immortality you shall have," I say. Every ear has heard every single sound, every syllable, every word, every phrase I've utter. He is damned. _They_ are all damned.

An expression of confusion spreads over the prince's face.

After a long moment, I smugly add, "With a price."

 **Second A/N** : Yes. I fucking watched Beauty and the Beast. And then watched the fucking trailer for the Tomione version of that. And now I'm fucking writing this even though I have like Tomione fics hanging around. . . _Psychology_ needs to be finished up with like five-ish more parts. _Speak of the Devil_ needs to be edited and revived. . . And there's a fucking WonderBat fanfic calling my name. Shit. I'm also taking two college classes this summer. Fuck this.


	2. Prologue Part II

**A/N:** I don't understand. . .

 _I._

The prince slowly understands the boundaries and details of his curse over time. His subjects, his servants, are turned into objects. Books, cups, dishes, clocks, napkins, dusters. . . He is more monster than man in appearance, though his soul has always been more beast than human.

The farther away he goes from his castle, the more scattered and disturbing his thoughts become. The lack of sanity. He is bound there or else he risks absolute insanity.

I can tell that half of the time he wants to rage, throw a tantrum like a silly toddler not getting his way. He goes far, but he never manages to get off of his castle grounds. No, no, no. The prince still values his intelligence, his logic. For a boy who thinks he has nothing to lose, he has _plenty_. So many things he has taken for granted, so many things to appreciate in life.

Beauty. . . Wits. . .

I come into his dream to truly explain the nature of his curse. He sits now as a boy, not as the beast he is in the actual world. Far below the dungeons. In the so-called Chamber of Secrets. On the table rests a single red rose. Not a single petal has fallen yet. It's still alive, yes, but it decays slowly.

"Every petal from the rose will fall when the decay of this castle has been complete," I say, sneaking up to him from behind. He doesn't dare to turn. "You noticed what happened to your poor groundskeeper?"

"He's a spoon." His voice is low.

"Correction. He was a spoon. He has been turned completely into an actual spoon, never to talk or think ever again. This is the fate that lies for all of your subjects, servants, and people here." I pause. "Ever tried walking off the grounds of this castle?"

He doesn't respond.

I don't expect him to.

"Ever feel. . . less of yourself? Like you're losing pieces? A bit slower in thought? Thinking you've forgotten something?" I move around him, my bespoke gown swishing around my legs as the heels click and clack against the stone floor. Dirt, once again, avoids latching onto my garments. "Your sanity is linked to the petals as well. But. . . there is one way to reverse everything. To reverse the states of your subjects before they permanently become. . . utensils and other knickknacks. To prevent yourself from losing all of your wits, to regain your true appearance. . ."

He shuffles his feet.

"You give up your immortality in a selfless act to save someone else," I finish. "One selfless act will break the curse."

 _I'll never give it up._

He may not vocalize it, but I hear it just the same.

Finally, he speaks again. "What are you?"

This time, I don't murmur even a word.

"I've never seen magic that powerful before. A curse still strong. . ."

I turn and tilt my head at him. "You sure about that?" I take his chin into my palm, forcing him to look up at me. Beautiful, dark eyes. Nearly reminds me of my husband's, in fact. Frowning slightly, I let go of his chin. Then I will the prince to wake up in the real world.

 _II._

"A selfless act will erase his immortality?" My love frowns and shakes his head. "I don't understand. He's a selfish man. He never give up his immortality for anything or anyone. He will live to the end of time. This is the opposite of fixing the problem!"

I lean against the tall, white column in our private bedroom. I must look as if I don't have a complete care in the world. I casually inspect my fingernails and imagine a different color for my nails. Perhaps red? Blood-red? So many choices and different, vivid colors of red.

I finally glance at my husband. "Does it matter? We both know I always plan to win. Whatever choices he choose will always end in his downfall or eventual death. An immortal beast who will be forevermore be our servant or a man who chose to be selfless in one moment? Besides, if you hunger so much for his death, then let me assure you that I've taken the liberty to inform his subjects the details of the curse. One selfless act from him will break their curse. Restore them to a human body."

My love considers this. For a moment. Then he laughs, his hands clutching his stomach as he roars with delight. "My dear Persephone. I. . ." His dark black eyes light up. "What will I ever do without you?" he breathes.

He presses a slow, careful kiss on the corner of my lip. "We can count on them to be selfish."

"Yes, we can. They'll do anything to break the curse. Even if the prince doesn't want to."

 **Second A/N:** This is for people who haven't watched the Tomione version of Beauty and the Beast. Links are funky on . Just simply Google "Beauty and Lord Voldemort" and the video will pop up.

For those on Ao3, links work: youtube watch?v=u0K-cHESi1c or facebook  Pistolshrimps/videos/10154268907872747/

There's apparently some issues with copyright claims, so YouTube might not work for some people. I've included the FB link.

Enjoy!


	3. Belle

**A/N:** End of Persephone's POV. I have replaced the enchantress with her. I'm going to continuously question why I did any of this. Don't judge me. Please. *sobs*

 _I._

 _Look there she goes,_

 _the girl is so peculiar_

 _I wonder if she's feeling well_

 _With a dreamy, far-off look_

 _And her nose stuck in a book_

 _What a puzzle to the rest of us is Belle_

 _II._

On that lovely, bright morning Tuesday, Hermione Granger wakes up an hour earlier before the rest of the villagers. Those times are the best, she thinks. A few moments, stolen seconds of peace before business begins to boom. Before everything. . . She can picture it. Markets open, children dash through the streets, and little chatter float to her ears about the most mundane subjects.

She can't help but think it's all very boring.

She visits the librarian in the only library in town. With greying hair but warm hazel eyes, he barely gives her a look. He's so familiar with her appearance, with his only visitor to this town's library. In the back of her mind, Hermione wonders why no one has married him yet. Men could be bachelors for the rest of their life, but the librarian is remarkably handsome with classical, almost aristocratic features. He's fairly old, about twenty years her senior. She has no doubts that in his youth, many women and girls would have wanted him.

The library itself is small, rather tiny. It has five bookshelves, and on the librarian's desk, there is a stack of paper. A book, which was torn apart at some point in its life. Hermione can't help but feel a pang of anger at its sight.

"The only other one who reads in this small town," he says, finally speaking up. He puts down a single page damaged by water. "Good morning, Hermione. How are you?"

"Good, and you?"

"Slow morning."

Perusing the newer books in the small fiction section, Hermione laughs. "It's slow for you every day until you get your three cups of tea in your stomach."

"Well, I only had two cups." He smiles warmly. "So where will you be traveling to?"

"Fiction," she answers. "Maybe to another world. Glorious technology beyond anything we have ever dreamed of. A man bringing a monster to life with the power of lightning. A hideous creature made up of the parts of many dead men."

" _Frankenstein_. An excellent choice," he remarks. "I'm having a few books mailed to me from Diagon Alley. It's not much. It is more instructions on Ancient Runes, but I have a feeling you would enjoy them very much before I send it back. Conveniently, I'm rather slow at fixing up books with extreme water damage. I need at least an additional week." He winks at her and looks at the single paperback in her hand. "That's all? I thought you would have looted me by now."

She shakes her head, grinning from ear to ear. "I prefer to borrow."

He laughs. "Miss Granger, one day, I'm very sure of it, you'll have a much larger library than this." He waves an arm around the tiny library, barely the size of Hermione's bedroom. "And all the books in it are yours."

If Hermione shuts her eyes long enough, she can see it so clearly before her. The smell of wood, of paper, of oil. Her heart beats faster in anticipation. Oh, all the places she may go. All the other _times_. All the other worlds. She can live through the eyes of men, women of different social classes, diverse lives, strange ideas. Dance on rooftops, build tree houses, and kiss a dreamy prince charming.

After bidding goodbye to the librarian, she places the book into her pocket and head out the door. The bell rings cheerfully in light rings behind her. She strolls through the fresh air of the morning markets, listening in on light gossip and speculation. As she passes by Mrs. Cole, the town's biggest gossiper and also a no-mag, she hears her name and the adjective _funny_. Hermione has read dictionaries, thousands of books, pamphlets that all contain that word, but she is quite sure that Mrs. Cole doesn't mean her to be a humorous person.

She moves through the crowd, and she hears her name again.

"Hermione!" says the librarian, holding up a thickly-bound book at her. After Hermione turns around to face him, he stops in front of her. "I forgot to mention that this book came in from the Southern Library of Hufflepuff. It's about Transfiguration of animals. I know Transfiguration isn't your best subject, but I think you'll like to take a look at it."

She takes ahold of the book. "Thank you."

"Have you heard?" A messenger boy with a big white parcel rushes to the cabbage farmer, who is selling his goods. "The king is dead."

"What?" The chicken lady turns her head, her jaw dropping. "King Morfin?"

"Aye," confirms the messenger boy. "Dropped dead after being hit by a mysterious, dark curse of abnormal origins. A grimoire hidden in his library. Was meant for the king, but must have been planned years in advance. Or so the rumors say."

Hermione raises her voice, interrupting. "But who runs this kingdom now? The line of succession. . ." Her words trail off.

Everyone knows that King Morfin of the House of Gaunt doesn't possess an heir. Rumored to be an alcoholic and a serial womanizer, the Slytherin King would have been forty-eight years old in two months. His sister, Princess Merope, died twenty-five years ago of unknown causes and is buried in the heart of Salazar's Woods among the other deceased members of her family. Morfin was an okay king. Not particularly good nor bad, though he was neglectful of his kingdom. The only good decision he made was placing his trust and the kingdom in the hands of Abraxas, the Grand Archduke belonging to the House of Malfoy.

The messenger answers, "Head Advisor Abraxas of the Malfoys has been made temporary regent until Merope's heir can be found."

"Merope's heir," breathes the librarian. "Morfin dead?" He shakes his head, clutching at his temples.

Hermione looks at him. His face slowly turns green, as if sick with the flu or indigestion. "What's wrong?"

"I swear. . . I think I've forgotten something important, but I don't know what it is." He waves her off. "I think I'll remember it later. Probably something silly like leaving the fire lit. Don't worry about me, Hermione."

"Okay. . ." Hermione draws back from him. Then she looks at the messenger boy, barely noticing the librarian pivoting and turning back towards his tiny library. "But what of this Merope's heir?"

"Merope and Morfin's father, King Marvolo the Second, also known as Marvolo the Terrible, died twelve years ago. The crown was handed to Morfin. The Slytherin line of succession starts with Morfin and then Merope, as she was the younger child of the two siblings," explains Mrs. Cole, bringing about the mothy smell of her. "She was removed from second-in-line to the throne when she died twenty-five years ago. Her illegitimate son was born a year before she died. He died stillborn and the Princess Merope was weakened with the turmoils of childbirth."

"That's what happens officially to illegitimate children Stillborn death.. Bastard sons and daughters," pipes up Pansy Parkinson. "We all know that they're never dead. They're shipped off to work in the servants' quarters for the rest of their lives."

Hermione blinks. Never did she realize that the fascination surrounding the royal family is really, really darn big. A great deal.

"Merope's heir, this Tom Marvolo Riddle, went missing twenty-five years ago," the messenger boy explains. "Regent Abraxas has ordered every messenger and every man to search and find Merope's heir. He would be twenty-six years ago. Very likely to possess dark hair and dark brown eyes. Is a Parseltongue."

Like looking for a needle in a haystack, Hermione thinks.

 _III._

"Heard about the king's death?" Hermione ask.

Her father glances up from the mechanical clock he tinkers. Then he sighs. "Very big news, Hermione. Incredibly hard to miss."

"What's your political opinion?" She gently places down a plate with bread and butter in front of him. Adds a delicate white napkin underneath. "What do you think about finding this long lost heir of Slytherin? Merope's son?"

Mr. Granger twiddles with the tiny pick in his hand. "Well. . . It would be better for the kingdom to be run as a regency. For Abraxas, the Grand Archduke, to run it. He has been running this for the last twelve years anyway. Morfin is only a lovely puppet, the decorated head of state. I'm quite certain that Abraxas wants to be Regent. The Councilmen needs a show. Maybe bark up a few trees to see if Merope's heir can be found, but they would not find him. A few more months, and Abraxas will be Regent and thus the line of Slytherins shall end with Morfin. All written down in great detail for the history books."

Hermione blinks at his long explanation. "That's what's going to happen?"

"Yes," he confirms. "Without a doubt. You'll see it happen more frequently within Ravenclaw's history. The thrill of court politics and the struggle of power. Illusions of unity in the face and eyes of Ravenclaw's people. All necessary to keep the kingdom peaceful and compliant."

"But Morfin's death? It's from unnatural causes."

He pauses for a second. "They'll investigate. But they won't find the perpetrator."

"Regent Abraxas?" suggests Hermione.

"Very likely, but not necessarily." He turns his attention back onto to the clock, watching a golden hand spin quickly. But counterclockwise. Wrong direction. Mr. Granger rolls his eyes and mutters, "I must have placed it in the wrong area. Those bloody gears. Could never remember which direction they should go."

Hermione muffles a laugh.


	4. Gaston

A/N: Fuck me. Smack my head. Just. . . omg, why????

For those of you who actually watched the movie (Beauty and the Beast 2017) and looked up its wikipedia articles, you may be aware that the chapter titles are following very closely to the soundtrack. Yes, I'll be actually doing that. For each song, there's one chapter from here. It's my way of making sure that this fanfic doesn't get overblown into a 150k words fanfic that Psychology and Speak of the Devil are about to do. Yes, I'm not kidding. Psychology has perhaps 7-10 additional parts. I already cowed under my own speculation of how many words that'll be. Cause. . . That's a shitload of building! I'm finding Tom Riddle's background way too compelling to write in Psychology. And then I'm going to build Tomione. So. . . fun times.

As for Speak of the Devil, I've been writing it in Microsoft Word and I haven't looked at it in over 8 months. And I'm 98 percent sure that I lost whatever plan I had for the plot. I'm 100 percent sure I don't remember what direction I was trying to take it. So I'll be rereading that fanfic in an attempt to understand what I was doing at that time. Hopefully, I'll actually do remember my plans for that. But idk if I actually can or will.

(We'll see.)

Also, I have to put up this Wonderbat fanfic. Cause I already wrote the prologue and bits of first chapter and. . . oh, joy. This is insane.

As for Taunt a God, I will have my own spin on it. There is going to be 9 more bloody parts, I think. We're going to see who the "Gaston" is. :D

 _I._

Gosh, it disturbs me to see you Gaston

Looking so down in the dumps

Every guy here'd love to be you, Gaston!

Even when taking your lumps

There's no man in town as admired as you

You're everyone's favorite guy

Everyone's awed and inspired by you

And it's not very hard to see why

 _II._

In the little garden outside of their home, Hermione carefully examines the leaves of the fig tree and other various plants. With a smooth wave of her wand, the dirt rolls back into the pots and a watering can feeds the plants a delicate sprinkle of water and fertilizer. She moves onto the tomatoes growing next to the grape vines. She thinks of her father's visit to the annual trinket market in the city and shakes her head. "23 miles away."

It is almost a marathon yet her father chooses to go. The market is what gives him life. He enjoys the peculiarities of math and mechanics. Clocks, watches, wheels, the list goes on and on.

"Hermione," breathes a voice.

Hermione rolls her eyes. Cormac Mclaggen. He never gives up. He has probably never taken a no for an answer. Not that there aren't many people who would say no to him. From the way is treated by Ron, her ex-best friend who fond over Cormac's beater, chaser, whatever skills, to Lav-Lav and her group of gossipers, no one would dare to say no. He is so great, so awesome, so inspiring. . . Blah, blah, blah.

"Ever since I came back from the war," he says, pausing a brief moment.

She rolls her eyes. In every conversation, he simply can't resist dropping a reference about his part in the war against Dark Wizards. A few sentences later, he would easily drop tons of references about his amazing education at Hogwarts and how he was the best duelist of his class.

"I have been missing something," he continues, staring down her backside and admiring the way her dark blue dress for on her. "I realized that, Hermione, I have been missing my other half. Be my wife, Hermione. We would have—"

"Your what?" Hermione's voice drops dangerously low. She has her fingers clutching the ends of her wand. "What did you say? Say it one more time." Standing up, she turns to face Cormac and fiercely glares at his smiling, hopeful face.

He thinks it's so charming, a small part of Hermione viciously thinks. It's not.

Cormac smiles even wider. "Hermione, you may be hesitant—"

"Hesitant?" she repeats slowly. She pulls out her wand. "No. I think I know exactly what I want, and it isn't you." With a sharp jab, nearby fig leaves transfigure into deft, yellow birds pecking away at Cormac's head.

It gives her a slight satisfaction to see him run.

She turns away, stepping through her doorway and relaxing in the confines of her home. But she does not see Cormac undoing her transfiguration with a far off look and murmuring, "Never felt that way before until I met her. She will love me."

 _III._

Two hours later, Cormac thumbs the side of his head, second guessing himself. Perhaps Hermione did truly see something lacking in him? Out of everyone in this small, poor village, it seems like it is only Hermione Granger who dares to not like him not sing his praises. He glances around at the little bar, and he scoffs when he sees that librarian nursing a hard drink while staring out to quietly view the dark statue of the deceased Princess Merope. Cormac moves to sit next to the librarian.

To his surprise, the librarian only gives him a small look before returning to gaze at Princess Merope. Cormac shakes his head. There is nothing outstandingly beautiful about that statue standing in the middle of the water fountain. Visitors sometimes drop a few coins in the water for good luck, the best coins always stolen by the children to buy sweets from the little shop on the better side of the poor village. Princess Merope herself, dirty with age and road dust, stands with a hand mirror, serenely examining her own reflection. There is a little bronze plaque right by her feet bearing the name of the sculptor and the date completed, just a year and three days after her death.

"You never married," Cormac says questioningly. "But you are the one who spends the most time with Hermione. It is. . . Unbecoming."

The librarian only arches a casual eyebrow.

Unnerved by his lack of words, Cormac musters a confident grin. "You are single, yes, but you should know that Hermione is already spoken for."

Sighing, the librarian pushes away his glass and softly speaks, "Mr. Cormac, if Hermione is yours as you imply, then you should not feel the need to run around and declare her as your future wife. You should also be aware that Hermione is not the lady who can be bought."

Cormac could not tell if the librarian is simply sneering at him or mocking him. He opens his mouth to say something, but the librarian suddenly stands up, sets down three shiny bronze coins, and abruptly leaves. Cormac watches as the librarian pauses to glance at the statue and then draws his wand to ignite the weeds trailing up Princess Merope's feet.

"Hey, Cormac," greets Ron, planting an arm around his shoulders. "Thought you would be celebrating your successful hunt. A large boar. The butcher saved you the head and the skins. Tonight, the village shall feast in the meadhall to celebrate your kill." Ron stares off dreamily, as if already thinking of how Mrs. Weasley would cook the boar's flesh.

Ignoring Ron's daydreams, Cormac sighs loudly. "Weasley, do you think I am a very good catch?"

Ron's ears turn pinkish. "A bloody what?"

"Good catch."

"In what way?"

He pauses before speaking, looking down at the librarian's half empty glass. "I have made plans to woo your friend, Hermione. I intend for her to be my wife. Madame Mclaggen. Madame Cormac Mclaggen. She is the only one in this village who is fit to be my wife, but when I went to her this morning, she refused."

Before Ron could say anything, Cormac spies a woman at the door of the bar placing her dark coat on the hanger.

"Oh, Ron-ron!" shrieks Lavender Brown, her dark blonde hair swirling around her shoulders. She gives him a small peck on his cheek and then turns to Cormac. "Cormac," she says, grinning widely. "I have such good news. My father agreed! When you are visiting my family for dinner this friday, he will agree for us to marry."

Ron's face, comically stunned for a moment, turns into a fierce expression of joy. "Drinks! We need drinks and food!" He waves over at the bartender and tugs Lavender closer to himself, practically pulling her onto his lap.

 _IV._

Mr. Granger shivers in the cold as he runs, leaving behind the strange castle. He has seen all the maps, and none of then—not a single one—reveals a castle within 10 miles of the small town he left behind. He took the wrong turn with his faithful horse, who has ran off when the fierce, dark werewolves attacked him on the way out of that wretched place.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Far more magical than anything he has ever seen. Moving staircases, talking candles, whispering clocks. It all smells of despair and madness, but he can sense the intense amount of magic surrounding that castle. Never before has he seen that much blood magic, wards, and spells converged to protect, shield, and hide a single place. With all those wards, it is almost impossible to find that castle.

Unless someone willed him to find it, he realizes. He pushes away that thought as nothing but fear speaking, but it lurks in the back of his mind.

He stumbles into the rose garden, clutching a white pillar for support. With old reflexes stretching their muscles once more, he twists away as a flash of green light hit the pillar.

The Killing Curse.

Not a good sign.

His heart races as he draws his wand, quickly deflecting the next silent curse cast. He clutches his wand even tighter, his heart sinking. Nonverbal. His attacker is dangerous.

If he was a younger man and had a quarter of the memories he lost many years ago, Mr. Granger might have recognized the tell-tale mechanical clickings of a familiar ward arming itself and sealing off the entire garden. He runs straight into an invisible barrier just as the green light flashes once again. Narrowly, it misses his head as his body slams to the ground.

Mr. Granger gasps in horror as his cloaked attacker menaces over him. Once he sees the glowing crimson eyes of a terrible beast, he mercifully slips into unconsciousness.

 _V._

Frowning, Hermione peers at the clock sitting on her father's work table and tilts her head as the clock hand of her father frantically shifts around and around. Two hours ago, her father was listed as "Traveling." Hermione was not worried then.

Her heart drops when the hand moves to "Lost." it spins around the clock a few more times, something she has never seen before. Her father's clock is accurate, connected to her father himself. Her own hand sits on "Home." When she was younger, her father has lost her so many times at the market, though Hermione herself never was. He made the clock to track her whereabouts, eventually installing a special part of the clock labeled "Library." The clock has become so popular, and Mrs. Weasley excessively praises the accuracy of the clock and its ability to always tell when her sons, Fred and George, are up to some sort of trouble.

The clock hand spins clockwise then counter-clockwise. Then it finally stops on "In Danger" and then spinning all the way back to "Lost," finally settling.

It only takes Hermione five seconds to comprehend what has happened. Grabbing her wand, cloak, and beaded bag, she takes whatever food is left in the kitchen. Then she summons a map to her, intending to follow her father's path.

 _VI._

Downing another glass of rum and drinking yet another opponent under the table, Cormac rubs his forehead as he thinks of the Hermione situation. He wants to marry her. The beauty, the challenge. . . Her father's money is also a highlight, a boon of marrying her. To be fair, Mr. Granger is not the richest person Cormac has ever seen. No, that honor belongs to Draco Malfoy with his dragon hide boots. But it is not as if Cormac could actually marry him.

But Mr. Granger has a strong amount of income, not to mention a single, pretty daughter of age. His heart beats when he thinks of the birds pecking at him, the challenge. The hunter in his heart can't resist her spell.

It is the thought of Ron asking Lavender's father for permission that gave him this idea.

When Mr. Granger gives Cormac his permission for them to be wedded, Hermione simply can't refuse.

He smiles as he raises his glass. "To Ron and Lavender! I wish you all the joys!"

Then he drinks it down to shouts of "Go, Cormac, go!"


	5. Be Our Guest

**A/N:** I'm back. And classes are getting started again. I am so done here. I already want to get over with them but also don't want to do them. Too many things to do, not enough time.

Bah. I realized I screw up the ages and timeline of the characters. But haven't figured out how to fix it. I don't think I will. You all just avoid the math, like what I am doing atm. I am hiding from calc. Hurts too much.

 _I._

 _Be our guest, be our guest!  
Our command is your request  
It's been years since we've had anybody here  
And we're obsessed  
With your meal, with your ease  
Yes, indeed, we aim to please  
While the candlelight's still glowing  
Let us help you, we'll keep going_

 _II._

Waving her wand at the trees, she walks a tentative step forward at the faint golden light leading the way to her father. She will be lying if she said she is not afraid. She has heard the cries of babies, the call of wolves, and the clamor of ghosts haunting between the branches. Spirits of the dead soldiers and knights who have fought in meaningless wars long forgotten.

A clanking of horse hooves coming through the trees sends Hermione's hand to tighten around her wand. The startled horse bursts from the branches, neighing nervously around Hermione.

"Crookshanks," she breathes. Her heart misses a beat as her eyes run over the horse and its riderless saddle. "Where's Papa?"

He neighs one more time, whining. His eyes glance warily back in the direction he came.

With her will strengthening, she grabs into the dark blond-orange horse and demands, "Take me to him."

 _III._

"Mr. Granger," he says, knocking loudly. Sure, it may be only three in the morning, but without a doubt, the wizard would be home. Cormac pounds even harder. "Mr. Granger!"

He scowls. Mr. Granger should be in.

He raises his wand, about to curse down the door, when he hears a commotion five houses down. He blinks in the pressing darkness, moving closer to investigate.

The librarian, still wearing his working clothes of a simple shirt and dark trousers, points his wand threatening at two dark figures wearing cloaks. One, girlishly pink. The other black, the standard colors for the kingdom's officials. "You come into my home in the middle of the night and dare to demand I take _that_ potion? I have half the mind to curse you both into oblivion."

Cormac's eyes widen. Why would officials under the direction of the temporary regent talk to the librarian? He is simply a librarian. Right?

The toad-faced woman coughs discreetly. "Mr—"

"No," he says firmly.

"You were among the last ones to have seen her and thus, the child as well. He must return to his rightful place at Hangleton," says the other official, stepping forward. "You were the Head Librarian of Castle Prewitt before it burned down eight years ago in Morfin's grief."

The librarian rolls his eyes. "Grief," he scoffs. He flicks his wand in a complex motion and then with a slash of his wand, cuts open the palm of his left hand. A slow stream of blood falls to the ground.

Cormac holds his breath. _Blood magic_.

The two officials exchange a careful look. It's clear they recognize the Dark Arts. The dark man takes a step back.

The librarian raises his bloody left palm, concentrating. "Let it be known that I have faithfully served the true Queen and the Prince of Prewitt. Let it be known that none of these people from Lord Malfoy's command shall ever see, touch, or hear Castle Prewitt. Let it be that this ward protects my son and my wife to the end, whether bitter or sweet." His wand drops to the ground, falling down the steps. He slams his hands together as a shockwave shake the ground and throws back the two officials on Lord Malfoy's order to the smelly gutter. The ward smoothly goes through Cormac as if he wasn't there.

Satisfied with the ward, the librarian turns around and shuts the door.

 _IV._

"It's snowing," she acknowledges, bewildered. She reaches out with the palm of her hand facing towards the sky. It is indeed snow, melting into water right in her hand. Impossible.

It is almost summer, not a single sign the clouds will bring snow.

The wolves howl, somehow louder this time.

She tightens her grip on Crookshanks and orders, "Faster. Follow the light. We must find him."

 _V._

"That poor man," mutters Mrs. Sybill Trelawney, puffing a bit while she brews a warm cup of black tea. "It has been so long since we have seen John."

Severus Snape, the quiet grandfather clock in the kitchen corner, only ticks once.

"Good thing he avoided the curse and took his daughter and wife with him," says Slughorn, bumbling closer to the oven. He twists around his armrest and sighs. The blue armchair, who was a man, stretches in the warmth of the fireplace.

Lucius Malfoy raises his eyebrow. As a white-grey duster, he has prided himself in the fact he remains the cleanest of the bunch. "He is only a fifth of the man he was without his more important memories. Could not even recognize his own invention when it bite him." He turns to Slughorn. "You forget that Sir Granger took them to the war front. At least here, the worst is being furniture." He pauses. "Forever."

"Colin!" Mrs. Trelawney calls out.

"Yes, Mrs. Trelawney?" The little cup jumps down from the cupboard.

"Let's go bring some tea down to Mr. Granger, my dear boy. But I do not think he will not get to drink any of it."

 _VI._

Inside the Granger's home, Cormac searches through the house for any signs of Hermione or Mr. Granger. He scowls as he sees the shoes gone, the fireplace cold and dark, and the cloaks missing from the hanger.

They will be back. He is quite certain of it. He stomps through the front door, and he pauses briefly, an idea coming to him. He supposes he has to thank the librarian for this, but he is not going to admit that.

Raising a simple ward that will notify him if anyone enters the Granger's residence, he whistles as he heads home.

 _VII._

The librarian, once Head Librarian at Castle Prewitt, sits besides the fireplace as he runs his finger through the ledger. He has come across many books throughout his life, but two years ago, he came across his backup ledger that keeps track of all the books he has read.

It's impossible. He could have sworn that he has never written it. But it is his handwriting and every bit of verification confirms that it is his. He must have hidden it away behind the bookshelf many years ago and simply forgotten.

However. . .

There is absolutely no way he could have somehow forgotten three years worth of memories and six hundred books he has read. He has counted every book and calculate it for the memories he has lost.

His finger stops on one book. One title. _Advanced Herbology_ _and Medicine._ He frowns, deep in thought. If he has read it. . .

Then he would not need to spend a fortune finding a copy. The book is too rare and too precious. He _must_ have it.

His frown deepens when he recalls what he said to the two idiots from Lord Malfoy's investigation into Merope's heir. Then he raises a blood ward, without even realizing what he has done. He only knows it now.

He did Dark Arts. But he could have sworn he has never studied it.

He presses the narrow between his eyes. His mind is becoming more and more illogical. He wonders if it is because of how old he has gotten, but at the same time, he suspects of something more sinister happening in this small, quiet town.

And maybe, it has something to do with _her_.

 _VIII._

A small owl lands on the shoulder of a cloaked woman standing at the start of the trail to the forgotten Castle Prewitt.

She sighs. "I know, dear sister, dear Pallas. He is starting to see through the holes. But it will not affect my curse in the long run." The goddess known as Persephone holds her finger out to the bird's leg. "I forgot to account for your Blessed mortals. Your Blessed has a keen mind to see beyond the illusion. But I can. . ."

The owl hoots.

"The daughter has broken in?" Just as she spoke those words, she feels her curse flexing to allow another player. "Then it has begun."

The brown owl pecks at her finger and then flies off into the morning sky above.

She glances up, watching the bird soar with graceful wings. "Fly well, Athena." Though the bird appears to weigh little of anything, she can only imagine how much rage her older sister carries against the Prince for killing her Blessed. It is nothing compared to her husband's.

 _IX._

Mrs. Trelawney and her tea cups bobble along with the tray roll across the floors. "My Inner Eye sense Sir Granger is dying."

Under his breath, Dean says to Seamus, "Everyone is dying."

Seamus snickers. The edge of the cup clinks against Dean, the spoon.

"Shhh," announces the teapot. "Did you hear that? Is that a voice?" A pause. Then with utter delight, she says, "It is about time she came."

 _X._

"Hello?" she says. She has left Crookshanks in the warm stable she has come across. Her eyes are shocked by the cold inners of the castle. She whispers, " _Lumos._ " The map shows thus area should only be forest area, not the messy grounds of a decaying castle.

She hears a clanking of something metal. Moving the light forward, she whispers, "Hello? Papa, are you there?"

She sees another light flashing down a dark staircase. With slow movements, she begins her journey towards the freezing dungeons.

 _XI._

His snow-white fingers tighten his grip on the pale wand he holds. Unbeatable, they say. It does not matter now. The wand might as well be an unfashioned stick. In the cursed Castle Prewitt, the once Duke of Prewitt stands in the window of the West Tower, looking over the distance to see the subtle glows of the nearby villages he used to rule.

Sir Granger. The man in his dungeon. He barely missed the curse by a matter of days when he took his wife and child.

Though the castle is crowded with his subjects, there are many more in the outside world. Briefly, he wonders if his uncle is still fighting the war against Dumbledore's Army, the remaining forces of the fallen Gryffindor military when Ravenclaw Kingdom suddenly swallowed the brash government whole. The Gaunt Royal Family wouldn't have involved themselves if it weren't for the coal. This, began the three-way war.

He waves his thoughts away. It was not as if he would actually see the outside world again. Time will affect everything but him.

It is the sense of a ward breaking that draws his attention to the present. From the dungeon. With a flurry of his cloak, he quickly leaves the West Tower to investigate.

 _XII._

"Hermione," Mr. Granger whispers frantically, suppressing a cough. "You must leave before he find you. You shouldn't have opened the door. You tripped a ward. This prison. . . It demands my life."

"You are lost. I had to find you. Ward or not. Prison or not." With a wave of her wand, the bars of her father's prison parts to let a man through. "Come on. I am not leaving without you."

Hermione grips her father's arm. Mr. Granger clings onto there, slowly climbing out of his prison.

"Stop," hisses a voice.

Mr. Granger trembles in fear, his hand reaching for his missing wand, the old habits never really dying. Hermione raises hers, calling out, "Who is there?"

She spies a figure lurking in the shadow. With more courage than she thought she had, she orders, "Come into the light."

The creature doesn't move at all.

She wordlessly illuminates the tip of her wand and moves forward bravely. She gasps at the snow-white face and the bright crimson eyes glowering at her. Her throat tightens in fear as her nails cut into her palm as she grips harder around her wand.

She fills in the silence, speaking despite her fear. "Release my father."

The creature hisses, "Why should I?"

"Because he is sick. Can't you see? He will die if he stays in here."

"Hermione, don't."

She ignores the voice of her father. Grasping onto straws, hoping that she can get her father out alive in any means possible, she pleads, "Whatever he is being punished for. . . Do it on me. Sentence me."

She lets go of her father and steps inside the prison. The bars she pulled apart bends back immediately on her entrance. "Send him away from here. Send him home."

The creature pauses, hesitation and bewilderment written in its movements. With only a snap of its fingers, Mr. Granger disappears.

The creature gives her one comment before his exit. "I do not know if you are foolish or brave, girl."

 _XIII._

She curls into corner, as if she could make herself even smaller. Her father is right. Completely. This prison requires a life to be inside of it, once the wards are price is a life, a living being to be within it. Then the prison will suck the life out of its prisoner.

It is a complicated piece of magic. If she was only an observer, she would admire this creation, however sickening the use is. The flow, the structure of the ward. . .

She shakes her head, shivering.

"Oh, he is so ridiculous." A voice drifts from the opening of her cell. "Sends John away and lets the girl stay inside the cell."

"At least, he doesn't send both of them away. May be hope for him now. That poor boy." The second voice is even closer to Hermione now.

"Let's get her out."

Hermione blinks in surprise as a feather duster and a teapot send a spark of magic flying at the prison door, sending it swinging open. She blurts out in astonishment. "You can talk! And do magic!"

"We can do more that than," speaks a spoon, hopping up the stairs. He spins around, twirling.

The teapot says to Hermione, "Come out of that drafty cell, my dear. We are so sorry for that."

Moving slowly, Hermione steps through the opening. She eyes warily at the spoon, cup, feather duster, and teapot. "Where is my father?"

The objects exchange glances.

The teapot speaks up. "Well, if the master has sent him away, then he would be on the edge of the castle grounds. Hopefully, he will be heading home, my dear."

"Then I should go with him."

The feather duster huffs. His tiny blonde eyebrows flurry with each word. "Not with that curse over your head. You try to leave the castle and its grounds and you will be hunted by the Night Guards. Who are monsters, not men. Only the master of the castle can remove your sentence."

Night Guards. Hermione shivers at their name. Elite guards of the late King. They are known for their underhand movements, striking only when the enemy least expects it. Even more prestigious and fierce and selective than the Royal Guards, the latter of which Harry Potter is a member of.

Still, she swallows her fear and nod.

The teapot looks at her with sympathy. "Come on, my dear. Let's go to your room."

"My room?"

"We would never keep someone like you in that dreadful place."

 _XIV._

The room, the kitchen, the dining room. Talking, moving objects! Doing magic! With each surprising new detail she learns, she nearly forgets her fear of the beast.

A silent grandfather clock slowly follows her up the stairs and back into her prison. The door closes shut, but not before the grandfather clock casts a nonverbal and wandless Sleeping Charm at Hermione.

 _XV._

Temporary Regent Malfoy, with a twitch of his index finger, unbinds his long, white-blond hair from its braid. A house elf places a glass of firewhiskey in his waiting hand and scurry away, glancing nervously at the regent.

The King has always been supposed to die childless and without a clear heir. The Regent had planned to quietly kill him under the guise of a bad romp among the deadly gardens and a dead whore or perhaps a terrible hunting accident. He can't fathom how a book could kill Morfin. A bloody _cursed_ book. Morfin would never read a book.

No, it is a sign of something else. Something far more nefarious and secretive, and one thing Abraxas can't stand is _not knowing_. He had his inspectors and Night Guards investigate every inch of Morfin's demise. They have concluded that it is, without a doubt, murder. But who? And why?

The royal succession line calls for Princess Merope to be Queen, in the event of the King's death. However, she was accidentally killed in the fire Morfin set at Castle Prewitt eight years ago. Her son. . . He rubs his forehead. In all honesty, he has never paid too much attention to that brat. Missing seven years or twenty-six years. His subjects give him different answers each time, and it makes him wonder if there is some other plot.

The Prince. . . Thinking of Prince Tom Marvolo Riddle forces him to recall a punctual, tall young man with dark green wizard's dress robes. But Abraxas could have sworn that he has never met the Heir Apparent before.

He scowls. Something is terribly wrong. He can smell it.

Inspector Dolores Umbridge sent a pink, lavender-smelling letter informing him of their lack of success in their questioning of the former Head Librarian of Castle Prewitt. The migraine in his forehead has only increased substantially with a single whiff of the letter, not even mentioning the astounding failure on the part of Inspector Umbridge.

He should be celebrating his victory when Morfin died. Yet. . .

Shifting slightly in his favorite armchair by the fireplace, he glances out the window. He glares at the darkening sky towards the east.

Commander Dumbledore of the fallen Gryffindor Army, rallying his soldiers and actually gaining ground in the old kingdom. Duchess Cho Chang of the Hwang Duchy in eastern Ravenclaw sends her esteemed Aurors to her king's aid. The young Hufflepuff High Queen looks towards the war-ravaged lands with an unusual hunger, according to his spies. She is only held back by her Princesses, but it is only a matter of time before Hufflepuff moves.

The Regent grimaces. He does not even want to _think_ of the other side of the world. Thunderbird, Wampus. . .

Slytherin Kingdom is too weak to stand on its own against the foreign countries ever since the three-way war between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor ate up the budget at an astounding rate. The murder of Morfin is only another ominous sign to the future permanent Regent.

 **Second A/N:** I screwed up the timelines. I really did. Originally, I wrote that Tom Riddle has been missing for twenty-six years and has not been seen since his birth. But when the librarian's storyline became a much bigger and more important subplot to the overall story, I realized it wouldn't make sense for Tom to have disappeared for twenty-six years. And with Persephone's curse's memory aspects driving almost everyone bonkers, I thought I would just leave it in to add into the confusion.

And Merope, indeed, did not die twenty-six years ago. The eight years ago figure that Regent Abraxas Malfoy mentions is correct, however.

But officially, the curse started when Tom was 19 years old. He has been under the curse for 7 years. -_- Shoot me a review or an ask if you're still confused. I'll try to clean up this mess I made.

Also, this is sort of following the movie's plot? I think, ish. Well, I'll end up fattening it around in the next chapter.


End file.
